


Brothers in Arms

by Kgraces



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batbrothers (DCU) Bonding, Batfamily (DCU), Gen, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28223805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kgraces/pseuds/Kgraces
Summary: Jason Todd's siblings slowly begin to understand him better, one brother at a time.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 12
Kudos: 340





	Brothers in Arms

Tim Drake is doing just _fine_ , thank you very much. This is an assertion he can get very waspish in defending, and sure, he might be surviving on caffeine and sheer spite alone at this point, but that’s an issue he doesn’t have time for. His primary problem at the moment is his need to catch a particularly slippery drug dealer. The case has been slowly driving him insane for a few days now.

He’s just about to open the door to his favorite little café in Gotham for a pick-me-up—their coffee is specifically advertised as ‘highly caffeinated,’ and Tim would probably sell his soul for one of their pistachio muffins—when he bumps into Jason Todd, of all people, and stumbles. Tim is, at that very moment, convinced he’s finally sleep deprived enough to start hallucinating—that is, until Jason steadies him.

“Woah there, kid,” Jason says, tone light. He catches sight of the teenager he’s practically holding up, and his expression shifts to one of mild concern. Tim is bundled up in several layers of winter gear to combat the frigid morning air, but he still manages to look _tiny,_ even with the bulky clothes. His skin is pale, as it always is, but the dark circles under his eyes are more prominent than usual, and he looks like he’s lost weight since Jason last saw him. “Oh hey, Replacement, you look like shit.” Tim scowls at his older brother, who merely smirks back at him in return. “C’mon,” Jason says, looping his arm around Tim’s shoulders. “You’re buying me breakfast.”

Still half-convinced he’s dreaming, Tim lets Jason drag him over to one of the tables and sit him down, and he places his wallet in Jason’s outstretched palm and rattles off his usual order when it’s asked (demanded) of him. Jason ruffles his hair and moves to the counter. Tim watches absently as Jason returns a moment later, two cups of coffee and a paper bag in his grip. When he catches sight of his drink, Tim makes grabby hands toward it, prompting a laugh from his older brother.

He hands Tim his coffee and his muffin, and Tim’s brain reboots the moment he takes his first sip of his drink. He lets out a content sigh and leans back in his seat, eyeing Jason warily. The two of them have actually been getting along lately, but Jason is being downright _friendly_ , which is especially strange, because he’s always excessively cranky this early in the morning.

“How long’s it been since you slept?” Jason asks, eyebrow raised in what Tim assumes is faint amusement. Tim grumbles and takes another sip before he deigns to answer, just to make him wait. The coffee warms him to the bones, which is welcome after the chill outside. His fingertips finally start to thaw, wrapped around the cup to chase away the cold.

“78 hours, give or take.” Tim shrugs. “I’ve been working a case.” He’s not quite sure why he’s divulging this information, but he figures Jason won’t actually care enough to do anything about it. Besides, Tim thinks that not telling him would be more trouble than it’s worth. Jason is notoriously stubborn.

“Fuck, Replacement, you need to take better care of yourself.” Jason lets out a low whistle, and Tim sighs, burying his face in his hands.

"Nope, I'm not having this conversation with you right now." He makes a frustrated sound from the back of his throat. Jason snorts and flicks him on the forehead.

“You know,” he says, tone lilting with amusement. “For a genius, Baby Bird, you’re pretty stupid sometimes. You’re gonna run yourself into the ground at this rate.” He reaches over to snag a bite of Tim’s muffin, and Tim actually growls at him, smacking the outstretched hand away. He yawns before he speaks up again. 

“Not like it matters much,” Tim says, shrugging again, tone bland. “As long as I’m still useful, it’s all good.” Jason frowns and studies him closely. Tim looks exhausted – not just the type of tired that comes from not sleeping for days on end, but the bone-deep kind of tired. It clings to him like a second skin. Jason runs a hand through his hair, tugging absently at the white streak falling above his eyes. Sure, they’ve been getting along fine lately, but the concern eating at him is a foreign feeling. It makes him feel itchy. 

“What’s going on with you, kid?” 

“Like I said, I’m working a case.” Tim sounds frustrated at having to repeat himself. “It’s...not been going so great, but I’ve got to take care of it as quickly as possible.” Jason watches him for another moment, seemingly weighing his options. Tim pointedly ignores his older brother and focuses his sole attention on his muffin. 

“Want a fresh pair of eyes?” Jason finally offers. He’s hesitant. He knows how fiercely independent Tim is, and he doesn’t want to push the kid away by implying that he doesn’t trust him to get the job done. He knows Tim is smart as a whip and _infuriatingly_ competent, but he’s exhausted. Jason is utterly convinced that Tim is more than capable of solving the case on his own, but he doesn’t want the kid running himself into an early grave to do so. Tim blinks at him and chews his muffin thoughtfully. The way he’s assessing Jason with his pale stare is almost eerie, makes his skin crawl under the weight of it. 

“I’ll email you the case file once I get back to my apartment,” he says after a long moment. 

“After you get back to your apartment _and_ take a nap,” Jason corrects him in his most condescending, _overbearing-big-brother_ tone. Tim glares at him, and he responds only with a crooked grin. “So are you going to actually tell me what’s up with you, or do I have to pull a Big Wing on you and badger you until you spill?” 

“There’s no way you could ever be as nosy or annoying as Dick Grayson,” Tim counters. 

“True, but I can absolutely be just as, if not more, stubborn. Plus I’ve got the added advantage of being a bigger asshole than he is.” 

Tim groans and lets his forehead fall onto the tabletop with a muted _thunk._ Jason can hear him grumbling incomprehensibly. He thinks he hears an exasperated _‘It’s too early for this’_ somewhere amongst the babble. 

“C’mon Birdie, talk to me,” Jason croons. He props his elbows onto the table and rests his chin in his palms. “Why’re you running yourself ragged over one measly case?”

“It’s not just this case,” Tim explains. He still doesn’t lift his head from the table. “I'm the CEO of WE, and our jobs aren’t necessarily conducive to a healthy sleep schedule or stress level anyways. Not to mention my work in San Fran or the other cases I’m collaborating on with the others. This is normal for me, Jason. I’m _always_ running on fumes. Why do you care so much?” 

“Why not just have Bruce or Dickiebird help you out, then? Sounds to me like you’ve got too much on your plate.” Jason tilts his head to the side as he studies his little brother, confusion etched into his features. He deliberately avoids answering Tim’s question, not certain of the answer himself.

“Shit Jason, I’m not useless,” Tim snaps, suddenly lifting his head to glare at him. Jason lifts his hands in mock surrender. The switch from overworked CEO to petulant teenager would be adorable if Jason didn’t know how scary his brother can be. “Maybe I won’t send you those files after all, if you’re that convinced I can’t handle myself.” It’s a challenge, and Jason knows he has to pick his next words with care.

“Woah, no,” Jason argues, scowling just the faintest bit. “Tim, I’m convinced you could take over the entire world in one afternoon if you really wanted to. Scary shit, yeah? So don’t worry about me thinking you can’t handle it.” Tim rolls his eyes, but the outraged spark in their pale depths has died down. His shoulders slump, and that weariness seems to creep back into him. 

“I’ve got to do my part,” he says with a sigh. “I can’t just get complacent and let Bruce or Dick handle things when I can deal with my own problems just fine by myself. That wouldn’t be fair to them.” He scrubs a hand over his face and takes another long sip of his coffee. “Look, I know I need to be better. I’m working as hard as I can, okay? But just because I’m tired and stressed doesn’t mean I’ll be a liability in the field or—” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jason interrupts. Tim holds up a hand and ignores him, continuing as though he hadn’t just interrupted with his outburst. Jason has to bite back the urge to swat at the kid, grinding his teeth with the effort.

“It doesn’t matter as long as I’m capable of doing my part. I’m not going to burden anyone with my responsibilities.” Tim sighs, running a hand through his hair. His expression is carefully blank. “Mine is still a necessary role to fill, so I’ve got to keep it together and do what I can while they still want me around. Even if it’s not good enough—if _I’m_ not good enough—I’ll still be doing something to contribute. Something worthwhile.”

“You’re family, Tim,” Jason says, meeting his gaze with a steady intensity that catches Tim by surprise. For the moment, Jason sets aside his own misgivings about their screwed up family and _his_ part in it. He just wants to reassure the kid in front of him. “You don’t need to earn your place with family.”

“You thought I didn’t deserve it, not so long ago.” Tim’s deflecting, but Jason knows this needs to be addressed, regardless.

“You’re right,” Jason agrees, begrudgingly. “I was wrong, though. I just wanted someone else to hurt like I did. You didn’t deserve that.” He struggles to find his next words, pausing for a moment in thought. His green-tinged eyes rake over Tim’s face, searching for something in his expression. Tim’s not sure what he’s looking for or what he finds there, but Jason’s fingers twitch around his cup of coffee. His grip is tight as he raises it to his lips and takes a long swig. “Listen,” he says after a moment, setting the paper cup on the table with a quiet _tap._ “I know where you’re coming from. B doesn’t exactly want me around, you know? So I get it—feeling like you’ve gotta make yourself necessary, but seriously, kid, B _does_ want _you_ around, so you’ve gotta take care of yourself.” 

“What do you mean?” Tim looks genuinely confused. “Jason, losing you practically destroyed Bruce. What makes you think he doesn’t want you, now that you’re back?”

Jason’s huff of laughter is sardonic as he says, “The Batarang to the throat really made an impression.” Tim’s eyes widen in horror, and oh, so he didn’t know. _Whoops._ Jason shrugs and pulls at the collar of his shirt, showing off the scar marring the side of his neck. “Bruce wants the kid he lost, not the person I am today. He was willing to risk me bleeding out in order to save—” He trails off as the name sticks in his throat, fury and hurt roiling in his stomach. Jason has to blink back the green haze that encroaches on his vision. He takes a deep breath, letting the familiar smell of freshly roasted coffee keep him grounded to the present moment. 

“That wasn’t right,” Tim says quietly. “I’m sorry.” 

“The whole mess was fucked,” Jason agrees, as though it were that simple. “But seriously, kid, if anyone should be doing any apologizing here, it should be me. I literally tried to kill you.”

“Multiple times,” Tim adds, unhelpfully. He drums his fingers against the table. “But I understand that it wasn’t personal. You were pissed at Bruce for letting me take your place, so you took it out on me to hurt him.”

“It was a shitty thing to do, and I’m sorry.” Tim waves his apology off, smiling slightly. Jason wonders briefly how and why the kid can be so dismissive, if not downright forgiving, but he shakes off the thought in favor of moving past their rocky history. “I just felt so…” Jason waves his hand in the air, trying to summon the right word. “Expendable. Like I was nothing to B, and yeah, sure, I know better now. He cared a lot, whatever, but sometimes I still wonder if I’m just a ghost to him—if he only cares about the son he lost, not the one he got back.” 

“I don’t know if it helps,” Tim offers, “but I think he has a hard time thinking of you now and you then as the same person. He just doesn’t understand why you’re so different now, which is _stupid,_ because what you went through was too much for anyone to come back from without a lasting impression.”

“That’s another thing.” He curls his fingers into fists, nails digging into his palms with a sharp sting. “It just made me so damn _angry,_ that he’d put another kid into that kind of danger. That he’d let you just throw yourself into the line of fire, knowing what happened to me.”

“So you tried to show him exactly what that meant.” It’s not a question, but Jason still nods. Tim absently traces a finger around the lid of his coffee cup, gathering his thoughts. “And how do you feel about it now?”

“What, now that I know you out-stubborned B in into taking you on?” Tim snorts, and Jason grins at him in a sharp flash of teeth. “I think he was smart to keep you around, especially because you have the self-preservation instincts of one of those dumbass lemmings.” Tim pouts at _that_ comparison, and Jason just laughs at the look on his face. 

“That’s not true!” 

“Tell that to your spleen.” Tim groans again at that and buries his face in his hands. Jason just laughs and reaches over to ruffle the kid’s hair. “Stupidest genius I know,” he says fondly. “Now c’mon, it’s bedtime for you, Baby Bird.” He ushers Tim out of the cafe and drapes an arm across his shoulders. It doesn’t escape his notice that the kid is trembling slightly. Jason internally curses Tim’s determination to work himself to the point of exhaustion. “I don’t trust you to act in your own best interests, so I’m gonna make sure you actually take yourself a nap.” 

“And if I don’t?” Tim asks, crossing his arms petulantly. 

“I’ll call in the big guns,” Jason says, all too cheerfully. “Dick and Alfie should do the trick. The combined guilt trip alone will be enough to send you into a coma of _shame.”_

“You’re the worst.”

“Love you too, little brother. Now let’s go. It’s cold as fuck out here.”

**

Jason’s lungs burn from the winter air and the smell of wet asphalt as he stands before a huddle of small-time gang wannabes. He’s gathering intel on the new drug lord who thought it would be a good idea to move in on Red Hood’s turf and royally piss off Red Robin. He keeps a loose grip on one of his guns as he talks to the guys—a threat, a promise. They’re nervous.

Good.

“Now listen here, boys,” Red Hood says, tone vaguely conversational but overtly hostile. “This drug you’re peddling, it’s killing people by the dozens. I won’t have that shit on my streets, ya hear?” He fiddles with the safety on his gun, absently flicking it on and off as he looms over the four men. He sees one of the thugs visibly gulp, and one of the others takes a half-step back. “So you’re gonna tell me who the boss man is so he and I can have a little chat. Do that for me, and you’ll get to go home with both your kneecaps intact.” 

“Um,” one of the guys says, intelligently. 

“We haven’t met the boss.” The only guy with any semblance of a functional brain cell pipes up. “We just know the guy who hired us. Dunno who he’s working for.” 

“Give me the name,” Hood growls. The man hesitates for a moment too long, but the sight of the Red Hood aiming his firearm at his knee is enough to get him to talk. Jason doesn’t recognize the name Victor Monroe, but he passes it along to Red so they can start digging. He’s still not quite sure how, but he’d convinced Red Robin to turn in early tonight. He can already hear Tim’s rapid-fire typing from over the comm link as he swaps information with Red Hood. 

Now that he’s gotten the information he needs, Hood waves off the four thugs dismissively. They scurry out of the warehouse like frightened deer, and the sight is enough to bring a vicious smirk to Jason’s face. Sure, he’s agreed to stop killing in Batman’s city, but he can definitely still use his reputation to his advantage. 

The Red Hood isn’t a crime lord anymore, but Jason’s been using his old connections in the drug business to dig up information for this case. Some of the more ambitious players have already approached him under the impression that he’s planning on reclaiming his position of power over the drug runners, hoping to garner his favor. The steady stream of information from power-hungry sycophants is speeding up the investigation, but it’s also broadcasting his interest in the matter. Jason still isn’t sure whether or not the new kingpin is going to see his involvement as potential for an alliance or a threat to be taken out. The Red Hood is powerful—influential amongst the criminal underworld and notoriously brutal. He’s already taken over Gotham’s realm of organized crime once before, with ease. He’s hopeful that this drug lord will view him as too dangerous to risk actually trying anything against him. 

Just as _that_ thought drifts into his head, the sound of a gunshot shatters the quiet of the night. The irony isn’t lost on Jason as his side screams at him from where the bullet hit. He curses profusely; the sniper had to have snuck onto the rooftops while he was meeting with the gaggle of criminals. His cursory sweep of the area beforehand had shown nothing amiss. Still swearing up a storm, Jason moves, ignoring the flare of white-hot pain that surges through him as he wrenches the injury. He has to find cover before the sniper can take another shot. Then he can regroup and figure out his next move. 

Jason dives for cover as another shot rings out, shattering one of the warehouse windows. He takes a moment to gauge where the gunfire is coming from and maps the best way out of the warehouse. He slips into the shadows and up onto the roof, ignoring the pain in his side as he finds a spot that will keep him sufficiently hidden. From there, he draws the two guns strapped to his thighs and fires off a few shots without bothering to actually aim. He’s just hoping to draw the would-be assassin out from wherever he’s holed up. 

There. 

Jason barely catches the flash of movement, but the sniper’s in his sights now. The Red Hood makes his way to the building across the street where he’d spotted the man packing up his rifle. The building he’s squatting in looks like an abandoned office building; the top few floors are a crumbling mess. The dilapidated walls provide ample space to shoot from the exposed areas and to remain hidden behind the parts that are still standing. Unfortunately for his prey, the spot just isn’t hidden enough to avoid Jason’s careful scrutiny. He’s quick and silent as he leaps across the rooftops and jumps through a gap in the roof of the office building, catching the sniper off guard as he lands heavily on his feet and immediately goes on the offensive. 

The resulting fight is brutal and bloody. Jason has the element of surprise for a few seconds, but it’s obvious that his opponent has some serious training. Still, Jason is _better._ He emerges victorious, but not without sustaining several other injuries of varying severity. His right arm takes a very long, very deep gash from a wicked-looking knife that completely soaked the sleeve of his leather jacket with blood, and he’s pretty sure at least three of his ribs are broken. Jason knows he’s in bad shape, but the sniper is finally unconscious. He lets out a low sigh that makes his ribs groan and reaches out to Tim on the comm link. 

“Hey, Red?” And, oh wow, his voice is a strained rasp. He sounds awful. 

“Hood, what’s your status?” Tim replies instantly. His words are clipped and worried. 

“Decidedly not great,” Jason grumbles. “I’ve got a sniper here for GCPD to pick up. You got my location?” 

“Yeah, I’ve got you, Hood. How bad a shape are you in?” 

“Well, I’ve obviously had worse, so I’ll be— _fuck_ —fine.” Jason cringes, putting as much pressure on the wound to his abdomen as he can stand without blacking out. “Hurts like a bitch, though.” 

“Hang on,” Tim says. “I’m accessing some surveillance footage from the area. Just give me a second to see what went down, and…oh my _god,_ how are you still standing? Sit tight, Hood. I’m sending someone your way. Just try not to pass out or anything in the meantime.” 

“You’re gonna have to give me something more than ‘someone,’” Jason says, not as fiercely as he would like. Tim sighs, low and exasperated. 

“Looks like Nightwing is closest.” 

“Shit, you’re gonna make me deal with Dickhead?” 

“Look at it this way: he also has to deal with you.”

Jason’s slightly mollified at that, but he still doesn’t really want to have Dick hovering over him like a worried mother hen all night. He knows he needs the help though, can feel the evidence of _that_ with every pained breath. His fingers fumble for the latch on his helmet, and he lets it slip from his fingers to clatter onto the concrete. The freezing air on his face helps to keep him alert as he waits for his brother to find him. All too soon, Nightwing lands silently next to him, all warm smiles and gentle reassurances. Jason immediately wants to shoot his older brother for having the audacity to be as chipper as he is. 

“Hi there, Little Wing,” Dick greets him, voice soft. “I heard you ran into some trouble.” Jason rolls his eyes and gestures to his injuries. The motion sends a jolt of fire down his abdomen, and he lets out a pained hiss.

“You could say that,” he says dryly. He kicks the prone form of the sniper with a heavy boot. “Still won the damn fight though, and at least we’ll probably be able to learn something from this fucker about how to find our new friend.” Dick hums in acknowledgement and moves to steady Jason when he sways on his feet. His brow creases with concern. Jason is absolutely _covered_ in blood, and from just looking at his injuries, Dick can tell that most of it is his. 

“Let’s get you somewhere safe, okay?” Dick suggests, worrying at his lip as he scoops up Jason’s helmet.

“I’ve got a safe house nearby,” Jason says. He manages to recite the address to his brother before his legs give out beneath him. His face would’ve become very well acquainted with the cracked concrete at his feet were it not for the arm that loops around him as he collapses. Dick drapes Jason’s good arm over his shoulder and supports most of his weight as he starts to lead them to the safe house. Jason is surprisingly docile with him at the moment. Dick casts an anxious look at his brother, who looks like he’s half-asleep. 

“Hey, hey,” Dick murmurs gently. “Stay awake. You need to stay with me for a little longer.” Jason groans in response but cracks open his eyes. The glare he shoots at Dick sends relief flooding through his veins, and he marvels briefly at his dynamic with his brother, how open hostility from Jason seems _reassuring._ “You and I just have to make it back to your place, and then I’ll patch you up, and you can rest after.” 

Jason nods blearily and lets Dick practically carry him to whichever apartment in whatever part of Gotham they’re heading toward. He’s not paying attention to where they’re going; he’s just trying his hardest not to pass out, trusting his brother to get them to his apartment without any more trouble. Shit, he thinks he’s lost a lot of blood. His jacket is probably ruined, and oh, it’s getting hard to maintain his focus before it drifts away like smoke. 

“Remind me to put salt in Red’s coffee the next time I see him,” Jason says with a groan. Dick chuckles in response. 

“For letting you get involved with his case or for sending me to come get you?” There’s a light, teasing lilt to his tone. Jason snorts and punches Dick’s shoulder with his good arm. The blow is weak, but he’s sure he’s made his point. They reach the apartment, and Dick is trying to prop Jason up with one arm and disable his security with his free hand. He pokes his tongue between his teeth, idly humming a terrible pop song to himself as he works. 

“You’re a ridiculous human being,” Jason mutters. Dick finally gets the door unlocked, ignoring the jab from his grouchy brother, and drags Jason inside and over to the sunken couch. He lays him down as delicately as he can and drifts around to search for his med-kit. Jason’s breathing is more labored than it was at the warehouse, and the most severe injury, the bullet wound in his side, is _burning._

His brother returns, and Jason notices that he’s taken off his mask and borrowed (stolen) a set of Jason’s pajamas. Dick kneels beside him and rifles through the med-kit, busying himself with administering pain medicine before he starts patching him up. Their eyes meet when he next looks up, and the smile Jason’s greeted with is a little watery. Jason rolls his eyes good-naturedly, expression caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Dick says, running his fingers through Jason’s sweat-soaked hair. His focus shifts to his brother’s battered body, and his brow furrows as he begins to examine his injuries. His hands are steady, and even though the touch against his ribs is light, Jason takes in a sharp, pained, _painful_ breath when it reaches his side. Dick handles Jason’s wounds with care, murmuring in soothing tones all the while. The pain medicine is starting to make Jason’s head fuzzy. His thoughts grow muddled, like molasses is running through his head where coherence should be, and as Dick finishes dressing his wounds, he manages to look over at his older brother through half-lidded eyes brimming with confusion. 

He wonders why Dick is taking care of him. He vaguely remembers that his brother hates him, or at least, he’s pretty sure he _should_ hate him. Through the floaty haze in his brain, he struggles to think. Concentrating on a thought for too long makes it harder to hang on to. 

“Hey Dickie?” Jason asks after a moment, words slurring. Dick rocks back on his heels and smiles at him. He makes an inquisitive sound as he stands with all his usual fluid grace to move to the sink, so he can wash the blood off his hands. “Why d’you still treat me like your kid brother? M’not...not him anymore. Not good.” Dick makes a soft, wounded noise and crosses the room in a few long strides. He settles next to him on the couch, gently laying Jason’s head on his lap. 

“Jaybird,” he says, and he sounds heartbroken. “You are good. You’re so good.” His voice is soothing, but Jason’s mind is too dazed and upset to process the platitudes.

“M’sorry.” 

“You’re forgiven. You’ve been forgiven for a long time, Little Wing.” 

“Don’ deserve it,” he mumbles, eyes slipping shut. He yawns before he next speaks. “Came back wrong.” He’s only vaguely aware of Dick’s objection as he slips into the welcoming darkness of unconsciousness. 

The pain meds give him a dreamless sleep, for once, but they leave him feeling disoriented when he wakes. He’s in his bedroom, uncertain of how he got there. Everything hurts when he moves to sit up, but the moment he hears footsteps coming from the next room, he reaches for the gun he keeps on the nightstand and trains it on the doorway. He’s still dazed from waking up and the remnants of the medication, but he knows his aim will be true. It always is.

Dick’s voice precedes him into the room, which is lucky for him, because Jason is in a _shoot first, think second_ type of mood. He raises a brow at the gun but doesn’t comment as Jason flicks the safety back on and puts it back in its place. Dick moves over to his bedside, looking worried. He checks over his injuries with practiced ease, but his brow is furrowed like he’s deep in thought. Jason wonders idly what’s wrong, but he figures that if something awful had happened while he was out, Dick would have told him by now. Must be something else, then. Normally he wouldn’t care, but his brother looks more heart-heavy than he’s seen him in a long time. 

“All right, out with it,” Jason finally says, tone grouchy but eyes soft. “The fuck is wrong?” 

“Everything’s fine,” Dick replies, too quickly, holding his hands out in front of him. “Nothing’s wrong, promise. You just, uh, said some stuff last night? While you were hopped up on painkillers?” He cringes at his own phrasing. “It got me thinking, and I, well—” Jason cuffs him across the back of his head with his uninjured arm, interrupting his ramblings.

“I don’t actually remember what I said, so just ask me about it, if it’s worrying you that much, idiot.” Dick pouts at him for the insult, but he takes a moment to gather his thoughts. 

“Do you really think that you...that you don’t deserve to be forgiven?” Jason’s sharp exhale sets fire to his ribcage, but he ignores the pain for the moment, focusing instead on Dick’s earnest blue eyes. He sees concern there, but what sets him on edge is the grief swimming in those depths. Jason scrubs a hand over his face. Apparently he’d said some pretty heavy, emotional things while he was out of it—things he does _not_ want to deal with until after he’s more awake and less likely to shoot his brother. 

“Damn, that was worse than I thought it’d be. Okay, here’s the deal,” he says after a long moment. “If you’re going to take advantage of those meds screwing with my verbal filter, and subsequent emotional vulnerability,” he grins, sharp and teasing, a hand over his heart in a dramatic, scandalized display, “you’re going to bring us breakfast first. And no, you’re not cooking. I don’t trust you anywhere _near_ my kitchen, so go buy some food, and then we’ll talk.” 

Dick smiles and readily agrees, stealing one of Jason’s hoodies before he’s shooed out of the apartment. He comes back only a few minutes later with coffee and donuts, and by then, Jason’s forced his protesting body to move from his bed to the couch in the next room over. Dick passes him his breakfast, and he plops down next to his brother. They settle in to eat as the morning sunlight filters in through the curtains, washing them in its pale colors. Dick strikes up a fairly one-sided conversation, filling the silence of the room with chatter. He doesn’t seem to mind his brother’s irritable mood. When Jason finally finishes his breakfast and downs the last of his coffee, he lets out a sigh and meets Dick’s expectant gaze. 

“Run it by me again,” he asks. “What did I say that has your feathers so ruffled, Big Bird?” 

“You said that I shouldn’t treat you like my brother, and that you’re not good, and that you don’t deserve forgiveness, and that you think you came back wrong,” Dick says in a breathless rush. “Why do you think all of that? Is that how you really feel?” 

“Oh, this is going to be a fun conversation,” Jason groans. He kicks his feet up onto the coffee table in front of him and sinks down into the lumpy couch cushions. Dick’s gaze doesn’t waver from his face. “Look, I don’t know what kind of illusion you’re living in, but I’m not a good person. I’m a murderer, remember?”

“You haven’t killed anyone in months.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s the better way to go about this whole vigilante business.” 

“And that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person,” Dick argues. Jason meets his eyes with an anguished expression. 

“I shot Damian. I nearly beat Tim to death.”

“That’s true,” Dick concedes. His smile looks a bit strained, but it’s genuine, nonetheless. “But I still don’t think you’re a bad person, Jaybird. Yes, you’ve done some awful things. You’ve killed people, hurt our family, but ultimately, I think your heart has always been in the right place. You’re _trying_ —trying to be a good person, to make up for your mistakes—and that’s what matters most.” He pauses for a moment. “As for how you came back and your thoughts on the matter...care to elaborate?”

“I clawed my way up from six feet under, Dick,” Jason says, shoulders slumping. He can still feel the dirt suffocating him in his nightmares. For a moment, he’s lost in the smell of the damp earth, the stinging of his shredded fingertips, the pressing darkness of his satin-lined coffin. Dick’s hand on his arm jerks him back to the present, and the breath that leaves him is shaky. “That was after I was beaten bloody with a crowbar and left to burn. I was catatonic for months, and when I woke up, I was—I was different. Lost, and bitter, and _broken.”_

“What happened to you was awful,” Dick agrees. His fingers are still curled around Jason’s forearm. “But you’re not broken. You didn’t come back wrong. The League manipulated you—turned you into a weapon, and you were so hurt, Jay.” He hesitates, breaking the eye contact he’d been holding from the moment they’d started talking. “You know I don’t agree with you on a lot of things, but I understand where you’re coming from.” 

Jason leans his head against the back of the couch. This conversation is exhausting, but he’s tenuously grateful for it. Dick seems to sense that Jason’s nearing the end of his emotional tolerance for the day, and he moves back, well aware that he’ll want some space for a while while he sorts through his thoughts. He pats Jason’s arm once more before he lets go and stands up. 

“I should head out,” Dick says, still smiling at him in a way that softens his features, makes him seem younger. Jason still isn’t quite certain what about _him_ can bring such a look to his brother’s face, but he’s glad to see him look less world-weary than he was when Jason first woke up. 

Jason struggles to his feet after him, taking care not to put too much weight on his injured leg. He grins at his older brother and slings his arm around his shoulders in half a hug. Dick looks startled, but his smile brightens after a moment, and he turns to hug back with both arms. Jason is just grateful he’s minding the broken ribs, because the hug isn’t his usual level of suffocating.

“Thanks for patching me up, Dickiebird. Tell Alfie I said hey.” Dick pulls back and ruffles his hair, turning to dart away before Jason can snap at him. His cackling laughter follows him out of the room. Jason shakes his head and sits back down on the couch. He’d like to meander back under the covers of his bed, but the trek seems too daunting at the moment, so he decides to nap where he is and deal with the consequences later. He really needs a new couch.

Aching back aside, he’s feeling much better when he wakes up, four hours later. It’s early afternoon, and the drain he’d felt after his conversation with Dick has eased after the rest. Yawning and still blinking the sleep from his eyes, Jason stumbles into the kitchen to brew some coffee. Once he has a steaming mug full, he sits down at his wobbly dining table and opens his laptop to make headway in one of the cases he’d started on before he offered to help catch the new drug lord in town. He’s only been working for twenty minutes when his phone rings.

“Hey there, Red Bird, you’ve reached Dead Bird. Got any updates for me?” Jason greets brightly. Tim just sighs, long-suffering, in response to the nicknames. 

“You have the worst sense of humor of anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Aw, c’mon, I think you’re forgetting about a certain obnoxious big brother of ours,” Jason says with a grin. 

“You have the second-worst sense of humor of anyone I’ve ever met,” Tim says without missing a beat. Jason lets out a triumphant crow of laughter in response. Tim waits for him to grow quiet before he continues speaking, tone shifting to one that’s all business. “The sniper confirmed he was hired by our new friend to kill you, but he doesn’t know much else. All of their interactions were through a third party.” 

“The same guy those dealers told me about?” Jason guesses, and Tim hums in confirmation. 

“The guy who hired your merry band of goons gives us a bit more to go on. Monroe is the coordinator of a roster of men willing to work as hired muscle. Usually he signs contracts with whichever one of the Rogues is wreaking havoc at a given time.”

“So you think this new drug lord could be working with one of the Rogues?” Jason frowns, not liking the thought. 

“From what I can tell, it’s likely,” Tim muses. Jason can hear him idly clicking a pen as he loses himself in thought, and he rolls his eyes at the sound of the habit. “I can’t track who exactly he’s working with, though. The money exchange is all under-the-table. There’s no trail for me to follow electronically, but there might be some physical records somewhere.” 

“We’ve gotta figure out who we’re dealing with here,” Jason says with a groan. He runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes. “If this street drug gets mixed with something nasty like any of the shit the Rogues are capable of cooking up, it’s going to get even more dangerous. People are already overdosing by the dozens out there. Mix in a cocktail of crazy and we’ve got a whole other mess on our hands.” 

“Sounds like it would be bad for business,” Tim says. “I’m thinking he’s probably either trying to create a more potent drug, either for profit or for increasing his body count, or someone else is pulling the strings.” 

“God, I hope it’s the former,” Jason grouses. 

“We’ll need to find those records to figure it out. I’ll do some digging to see if I can find some sort of base of operations, and in the meantime, you get some rest.” Jason wants to protest, but he knows he stands no chance of winning any argument with Tim, who’s always been fiercely logical, particularly when it comes to his family’s best interests. He’s determined to figure out a way to get the kid to apply that cold pragmatism to his own sense of self-preservation. Tim insists that Jason needs to let himself heal before he exacerbates his injuries, but _he’s_ allowed to work until he drops? 

What a _hypocrite._

“Okay,” Jason says, because he knows when to pick his battles. “I’ll take it easy for now. Let me know if you want a hand with anything, yeah?” Tim agrees, but he already sounds distracted by something else, so Jason isn’t sure whether or not he’s actually listening. Tim hangs up a moment later, leaving Jason to his own devices. Sighing a little and shaking his head at Tim’s stubbornness, he wonders when exactly interacting with his brothers had gone from a whirlwind of blood and rage to the warm, mildly exasperated feeling that’s sitting in his chest. 

**

A few weeks pass, and Hood re-emerges in Gotham in his typical, violent manner. He sweeps through his usual patrol route, taking down a group of gang members who thought it would be a good idea to encroach on his turf while he was away. Once he roughs them up, admittedly a bit more brutally than he normally would, Hood heads off to an address he’d been directed to by Tim the day prior. He settles on the roof of the building directly across the street, melting into the shadows. 

Smoke curls into the air as Jason takes a drag from the cigarette at his lips, helmet discarded by his side. He’s staking out a potential headquarters for Monroe, until he can spot anyone matching the description Tim sent him entering or exiting the building. It’s an unassuming antique shop, but from what information Red Robin has managed to gather over the past couple of weeks, the shop is mostly just a front for the group of hired muscle Monroe leads.

An hour into the stakeout, he hears someone land on the roof behind him. Jason turns, gun in hand aimed at the spot he heard the noise come from, and he’s surprised to see Robin scowling at him. The scowling doesn’t surprise him, but the absence of the Bat does. Jason holsters his weapon and waves the kid over. Robin hesitates before moving to sit next to him.

“What’s up, Bat Brat?”

“Hood,” Damian bites out. “I was merely wondering what you think you’re doing here. This is not your territory.”

“Doing a favor for Red,” Jason replies with a shrug.

“The incompetent one sends the more incompetent one to do his work for him? I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“Incompetent?” Jason practically growls out the syllables. His anger spikes at the insult, but he also feels annoyed on Tim’s behalf. 

“We all are aware of the Pretender’s shortcomings,” Damian says easily. “And of course, your obvious failures.” 

The world goes a sickening shade of acidic green.

Jason takes a deep, shuddering breath and says, carefully biting out each syllable, “My death wasn’t my fault.” 

“That’s not what I’ve heard.” Jason feels like he’s one wrong word away from wringing his youngest brother’s neck. He leaps to his feet. He has to get some distance between them before he lashes out and does something he’ll regret. The fury crashes over him in an uncontrollable wave, so Jason channels it into words instead of violence. 

“I am sick and fucking _tired_ of being treated as a cautionary fucking tale. Like one of those stupid folk stories parents tell their kids to scare them into behaving. I wasn’t being a reckless moron when I died—the fucking disobedient Robin the Bat warns you about. ‘You need to listen to me, or else you’ll end up like Jason.’” He scoffs. “The worst fucking thing to be, yeah? It wasn’t my fucking fault my own _mom_ sold me out to that _bastard,_ okay? So take your holier than thou attitude and your superiority shit elsewhere, because I’m fucking _done.”_

“Your mother…?” Damian looks confused, but the hard look on Jason’s face doesn’t subside. If anything, he gets angrier.

“Tried to save her own sorry skin by selling me out. She watched him beat me bloody like it was nothing.” He gets up and prowls back and forth on the rooftop, trying to burn up some of the energy thrumming through his veins. He’s so sick of burning from the inside out.

“I didn’t realize. Father never told me. He expressed the opinion that your own mistakes led to what happened to you.” Rage flickers in his heart, flaring at the mention of Bruce, but Jason sighs, reminding himself that he’s dealing with a troubled kid. He’s a brat, sure, but he needs to learn better _somehow._

“Look, kid, you’re still young. You’ve got plenty of time to figure out how you see the world. Form your own opinions. I know that’s not something you really had a chance to do with the League, but you shouldn’t just let B’s opinions become your own because you don’t want to disappoint him or whatever bullshit.” 

Damian frowns, something contemplative crossing his face. Jason spots movement on the street below and holds up a hand, silencing him before he can say anything else. He’s still furious, but at least he’s found a better way to channel his anger. He alerts Red to what’s going on at the antique shop and makes his way toward the store’s dilapidated entrance. He’s vaguely aware of Robin following after him.

Hood draws his weapons and follows Monroe into the shop. He has the element of surprise on his side, but he also has Robin to protect, so some of the advantage is lost. He waits in the shadows, watching as Monroe shakes hands with an older man with graying hair and a wide, crooked nose. Robin hovers closely at his side.

The two men start to discuss business, and it doesn’t take Hood long to realize he’s stumbled across the drug dealer they’ve been hunting down. He grins from underneath the helmet. Oh, Tim is going to be _so_ mad he isn’t here to help take them down. The two men are alone, so he takes his opportunity and goes on the attack. They’re both unconscious before Robin has even moved to assist him. Hood turns and catches the dumbstruck expression on his face.

“Competent enough for you?” He snarls, the words more menacing through his vocal modulators. 

He leaves without looking back, thinking that’ll be the end of it. He’s surprised when, a few days later, three sharp raps on his door interrupt his breakfast. He opens the door to see Damian standing at the threshold, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Jason sighs and waves the kid into his apartment. His temper has cooled, but he’s still wary of anything Damian might say to reignite the spark.

“What,” he asks flatly. He’s not in the mood to be insulted again, but he’s at least willing to hear what Damian wants. 

“I asked Father about your mother,” Damian says. He looks nervous, like he’s expecting Jason to kick him out. It’s not an unreasonable concern, but Jason’s intrigued. “He didn’t know she betrayed you.”

“So the old man actually _can_ admit he’s wrong,” Jason grumbles. He runs a hand through his hair and moves to the kitchen. “God, what an asshole. Do you want tea?” He glances over his shoulder, and Damian nods. He makes them Earl Grey—an old favorite of his, a reminder of better days with Alfred in the kitchen at Wayne Manor.

“I was wrong about you, and for that, I apologize,” Damian says. He refuses to look into Jason’s eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the mug in front of him. “Grayson says I should reevaluate my opinions on both yourself and Drake. I’m finding it difficult.” 

“So you went right to the source?” Jason asks, one brow raised in surprise. Damian nods, and Jason laughs at his expression. He looks just like Bruce at his most emotionally stunted. The simmering anger dissipates, and he sits down next to Damian at the counter. He supposes it’s about time he got to know his youngest brother. Jason smiles. “Alright then, let’s talk.”


End file.
